Keeping a secret
by SavageBetty
Summary: Female!Exile and Atton take a walk, and enjoy a last moment of relative normality.


Keeping a Secret.

Nar Shaddaa.

**Lexa, Exile.**

We split from the rest of the group under the pretence of covering more ground. It's an easy lie; maybe too easy, though they believe it anyhow. Mical looks over his shoulder, but goes with the Zabrak and Mandalore towards the docks like he's told. Poor boy. He always was too easily led, too eager to nod and say "Yes, ma'am". It's a shame I don't particularly like blondes. I find myself wondering sometimes what order he'd draw the line at.

Atton strides ahead and I let him. He knows where he's going. Nar Shaddaa- we're on his turf now. He leads the way, not looking back at me, hands stuffed in the pockets of that damn jacket. It's a crime he wears it, or anything, really. I've seen underneath. That's right. He's not the only one who knows how to sneak around the _Hawk_.

He picks a place a few levels up and a twenty-minute walk from the Refugee Sector. It's alright, though I suppose that description is relative. Neon lights are scrawled over the entrance, spelling out Huttese profanities I have to squint my eyes to read. Things make sense when I step past him (he's holding the door for me, one brow raised and his eyes low). It's dim and it's dirty, there's low music and murmurs and Twi'lek girls bending in ways they shouldn't be able to on a stage in the far corner.

"Nice," I remark. "I like it."

"Yeah? Thought you might." An arm appears over my shoulder and he points to a booth across the room. "Best seat in the house. I'll handle the drinks."

I nod, still admiring the Rutian Twi'lek and the way she can arch back until her tattooed lekku brush the floor. Atton's presence vanishes from behind me and I make my way over to his suggested spot, trying to ignore the way the floor feels ever-so-slightly tacky underfoot. All part of the charm.

He's at my side again before I've even taken off my jacket. He sets a bottle and two glasses down with a quiet _thunk . _I glance at the label. Juma, of course; as if the man drinks anything else. I slide a glass across the table as I sit, smirking a little at the bounce in the seat cushion. What can I say? I'm easily amused.

Atton pours, filling my glass first, then his, with just a little more of the liquor for himself. He swirls the liquid before taking a sip, and I watch for a few moments before doing the same, in rapture with the precision of his movements. It's all deliberate, purposeful, like he expects someone to be watching at any given moment. Decisiveness or paranoia? I'm not sure which.

"So," I venture, holding my glass up against my lips, inhaling the scent of the Juma with each breath. It's almost a fruity kind of smell, but more sharp than sweet. I can't decide whether or not I like it, but Atton downs the stuff by the quart. I'm curious as to how exactly he stays sober long enough to fly the ship.

"So," he replies, mimicking an octave lower and artfully raising a brow.

"How 'bout that Twi'lek?"

The corner of his mouth tugs up into a smirk, and he glances at the woman dancing on the other side of the room. "Not bad. Kinda skinny, though."

I jump at the chance for idle conversation.

"Yeah? Thought you liked that kind of thing. Just enough meat to hold her head up."

He chuckles into his glass, and then lowers it to the table. "Nothin' to hold on to. I like a little more."

"How much more?"

Atton looks at me for a second, and then sits back in his seat. He closes one eye and lifts his hands, studying me and tracing his fingers in an hourglass shape, tracing me. He winks, grins, and raises his glass again. I laugh.

"Smooth," I say, still sniggering as I down the rest of my Juma.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, smiling, drinking, drinking some more. We begin to chat and bicker. We argue about the swoops we saw at Lupo's place. We discuss what drives better- the Air racing swoop or the KV. He's firmly for the Air side, but I'm all for the KVs. I like the grunt of the engine; he likes the smooth ride and the trickier controls. He suggests we go back to the swoop track and make the debate more interesting. He pauses. I smile. And for a second I'm not entirely sure he's talking about credits.

Atton shakes his head, smirk fixed to his lips now, reaching for the Juma bottle. When he tips it up, only a few drops roll out and fall into my glass.

"Damn, and here I thought I'd at least get you half-way hammered," He looks up as he says it, grey eyes still managing to stay bright even through the Juma and the dim light. My eyes are half lidded, and my chin is resting on my hand to keep it from swaying. Oh, I'm not _drunk_, but I'm not entirely sober, either.

"Why? You have something planned?" It's all I can do to not grin.

His eyes fix on mine, and that smirk wavers for half a second, but it's enough. His facade is cracked. And I don't think he's lying when he says:

"From the minute we split off from the rest of them."

It's a minute or so before I realize I've been staring at him with my mouth slightly open. Short questions follow, with equally short answers. Do we go back to the ship? No. Where are the nearest over-night rooms? Near. Are we going to sit here all night with an empty bottle of Juma and our legs entwined under the table? No.

And soon we're in a room, in a place with a serious question mark above its levels of hygiene, but neither of us care about that. My jacket his gone, and so is his. Boots are kicked off and knock over a vase as they fly across the room. Atton's hands are on my waist and he's walking me backwards toward the bed. I feel it hit the back of my legs and he braces a knee on the mattress, slowly laying me down, one hand around my waist. When I grab for the buckle of his belt, he stops me, with nothing more than smirk and a shake of his head.

Atton kneels above me, pinning my legs with his weight, and my feet dangling a little helplessly over the edge of the bed. It should bother me, the restraint, but I'm captivated by the glint in his eye and the quickening of his breath as he reaches down. He takes hold of the tab of the zipper at the neck of the jumpsuit I bought only this morning, and takes his damn sweet time dragging it all the way down to my navel. His low chuckle of surprise is priceless when he discovers nothing else underneath.

His cool fingers meet my stomach and start to slide up, skin pebbling in their wake, and when they push fabric back and cup around my breast, it's like the spell of the unwrapping is broken. His grip turns hard, urgent, the jumpsuit tugged and yanked off of me in a matter of seconds. Atton shifts back, freeing my legs, and takes a moment to rid himself of his own clothes.

He grips my ankles, hands gliding up, travelling steadily higher. He stops every time I move or try to touch him, and I soon learn my lesson. He settles on his knees between my thighs, guiding my legs around his hips with one hand. His other is cupped against my sex, stroking, probing, cold fingers sliding against hot flesh until I have to close my eyes and concentrate very hard on not opening my mouth.

Then both his hands grip my waist, one cold, one warm and wet now, and he hauls me up and astride his thighs. I open my eyes, and see grey staring back with alarming intensity, and the sheen of sweat on his brow. I can hear his breath like it's my own, hard, fast, with a desperate edge that betrays his action a moment before he moves. He drops me, just a little, just enough. The feel of him inside me is dizzying, different somehow than it's ever been with anyone else.

I tighten my thighs around his hips and we begin to move together, his hands flexing and grasping at my back, my own sliding around his shoulders and winding up into his hair. His thrusts are hard, I ride him slow, and we never close our eyes, not for a second. Not until my whole body aches, his muscles tense beneath me; he tips my head to one side and whispers against my skin.

"_Alexandra..._"

We lay together after we're spent. I'm half sprawled over his chest and he has one arm wrapped possessively around me. I can't tell if he's asleep or not, but I almost am, and his pulse is strong and steady under my cheek. I flex my fingers over his chest and in answer his arm tightens a little and he holds me closer. It's enough.

The next day I'm in the Refugee quad. Two men sidle up beside me and smile. They ask for a few creds, like most refugees do, and give me information in return. And they point to Atton across the quad as they go, laughing.


End file.
